


Right Between the Eyes

by enigma731



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Women, Female Friendship, Gen, Mentors, Natasha Romanov Joins SHIELD, POV Female Character, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dottie Underwood suddenly appears in the twenty-first century, Peggy turns to the best contact she has: S.H.I.E.L.D.'s very own Black Widow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KristinaDavidovna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KristinaDavidovna/gifts).



_February 2, 2004  
Bethesda, Maryland_

The irony is, Peggy’s been missing the action. 

It’s unrealistic, she knows. She’s spent enough of her life and career in the field to realize that bodies aren’t meant to keep marching into battle forever. Even if she could find some tenuous justification for assigning herself an active op at this point, she’s fairly certain the rest of her team would laugh themselves silly. 

But that doesn’t stop her from growing restless, from feeling like the culmination of her career ought not to be day after day of paperwork and politics. It also doesn’t stop her from booking weekly sessions with a bag at the gym, and stubbornly ignoring the way her joints protest the morning after. There’s something profoundly stifling about growing older, about realizing that the body she’s stuck in won’t ever work any better than the way it does today.

The dreams have been an unwelcome companion for most of her life, the things she resolutely shoves aside during her waking hours exacting their revenge from her subconscious. 

Tonight it’s the familiar walls of her Triskelion office that surround her in sleep, but it isn’t comfortable, doesn’t feel secure the way she’s come to expect. The Council is meeting, she knows instinctively, but the view screens that surround her desk are blank, clear panes of glass catching the light coming in from the sunset outside. And still she feels positively _watched_.

Peggy studies them for a moment, turning her attention from one to the next, trying to identify the source of the feeling. Blank, save for her own ghostly reflection in one, an odd trick of the light that nevertheless serves to remind her of how many years have slipped by, sitting in meetings like this one. Or not like this one, exactly.

The sudden sharp _clack_ of keys makes her jump, and she looks away from the viewscreen for the first time, notices the typewriter sitting in the middle of her desk. It isn’t connected to anything, at least not visibly, yet its keys are clicking away, producing line after impossible line of code that tugs at the memories in the back of her mind. It _is_ a nightmare, an old one, only now it’s somehow followed her into the twenty-first century, the word _Leviathan_ glaring at her from just below the S.H.I.E.L.D. letterhead.

She wakes with a start, sweat already drying cold on her face. For a moment she forces herself to just lie there, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, trying to will herself back to sleep. It doesn’t work, of course, and finally she gets out of bed with a sigh, deciding that a drink is in order.

Bleary-eyed, she makes her way down the stairs in the darkness, switches on the kitchen light, and finds herself confronted by a nightmare far worse than anything she’s dreamed. 

For a moment her brain tries to insist that it’s impossible, that she’s mistaken, that somehow she must still be asleep, trapped in the unrest of her dreams. But she isn’t. She’s wide-awake now, perfectly alert, and staring at a woman she’s been completely certain died more than five decades ago. 

Dressed in solid black, leaning casually against the frame of the doorway that leads into the dining room, is Dottie Underwood. She looks as though she hasn’t aged a day since Peggy last saw her, at the dawn of the fifties. 

Dottie smiles, a small, precise motion. “Peggy. You know, you weren’t supposed to see me here, but I’m glad you’re up. Seems so impersonal, otherwise.”

Her hair is different--short, mousy, and dyed a flat brown--chosen for being unremarkable in the twenty-first century, Peggy thinks, but the rest of her seems completely unchanged, as though the intervening years might have been a matter of mere minutes instead. And she’s holding a small vial of liquid, which is at least half-empty, in one hand.

“Let me guess,” says Peggy, taking half a step toward her and mentally running through the best strategy to take. “You missed me.” 

She has contingencies throughout the house--a gun secured to the bottom of her coffee table, another in the top drawer of her nightstand. But there isn’t anything specific in this room, because the kitchen’s never struck her as a particularly dangerous place, certain culinary disasters aside. 

Dottie’s grin widens, positively predatory. She presses the stopper more firmly into the vial, then slips it into a pocket. “Oh, I don’t know, Peg. I _was_ looking forward to seeing you again, but you’re looking a little worse for wear.”

“And last time I saw you,” Peggy retorts, shifting to keep the island between herself and Dottie, “you were looking more than a little dead. So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not exactly dressed up for your big return to the living.” She takes a careful three steps backward, hoping that if she can make the movement seem tentative and afraid, Dottie will dismiss it as nothing more than the effects of her own attempts at intimidation. 

Dottie laughs, a high, girlish sound that reminds Peggy of her days at the Griffith, when she’d seemed nothing more than a naive farm girl not quite suited to the city life. It makes her stomach turn, her blood run cold. Her pulse is roaring in her temples, and the whole thing still feels surreal, impossible, though Peggy’s seen stranger things in her life than a woman who’s somehow escaped the effects of time. 

“Come on,” Peggy presses, because now she’s managed to pull open the drawer behind her, has her fingers wrapped around the handle of the biggest butcher knife in her kitchen. “Presumably you’re here to kill me. So are you going to get on with it, or are we just going to stand around reminiscing? Because if talking is all you were planning on doing, then I’m going back to bed.”

It’s a gamble and Peggy knows it. If Dottie has a gun--and she could, concealed anywhere on her body, the way that she’s dressed--then all the knives in the world won’t be able to protect her at this range. But that seems unlikely. The sound of a gunshot would attract all sorts of unwanted attention in this neighborhood, for one thing. And it would be easy. Too easy. None of the challenge that drives Dottie, that’s made her such an enduring threat. 

Dottie shrugs, still loose, too casual. “If that’s what you want.” She takes two steps forward, then moves quick as a flash, up and over the top of the island, landing so close in front of Peggy that she’s knocked off balance. 

She’s forgotten, in the intervening years, the way that Dottie moves, the way that her strength and agility seem more than completely human. Now, Peggy realizes belatedly that she’s pinned against the counter, has gotten sloppy in her surprise and disorientation. She closes her fingers tighter around the knife, brings it up in an arc toward Dottie’s neck--and promptly gets an elbow square in the gut as the other woman spins, coming around again to sweep Peggy’s legs. 

Peggy stumbles, out of practice, the knife glancing off the tile floor and slipping from her hand. Dottie is still moving quickly, about to pin her again, but Peggy manages to roll out of the way, nearly to the other side of the room entirely. She grabs onto a cabinet handle, hauls herself back to her feet and fumbles for the nearest things she can use as projectiles. 

The first thing she comes up with is the salt shaker, but she throws it all the same, and it bounces off Dottie’s chest in a way she doesn’t even seem to notice. Next is the fruit bowl, all but empty save for a lone orange, past its prime. Peggy throws it too, then the bowl itself, which sails over Dottie’s shoulder as she dodges and shatters into a hundred glass shards. 

Finally, she finds a freshly-purchased bag of flour, digs her fingernails into the paper and swings it with all her might. It connects with Dottie’s hand, now holding Peggy’s discarded knife, and flour explodes into the air. Peggy isn’t prepared for the way the stuff fills her eyes and mouth, sticks in her throat and makes her cough. The next thing she knows, she’s trapped against the counter again, the blade of the knife stinging at her throat and Dottie’s voice in her ear.

“I have to admit, I’m disappointed,” Dottie taunts, her breath a hot brush on Peggy’s skin. “I didn’t expect you to be so--I don’t know, _old_ , I guess. I thought you’d at least make it fun.”

Peggy is absolutely certain that she is about to die, feels the familiar stillness that comes with complete and utter helplessness. For all of her stubbornness, she knows when she’s beaten, spares a second to think that she would rather go this way than alone in her bed. 

But then the pressure on her throat lifts away, and Peggy swipes at her eyes, which are watering from the flour and the pain. 

“Change your mind?” she asks, as Dottie backs away.

Dottie just laughs again, shrugs and sticks the knife into her waistband, like a trophy. “No. But orders are orders.” With that, she turns and dives through the open window into the night. 

They’re on the second story, a good twenty feet up, but Peggy isn’t surprised in the least when she looks down and sees nothing but the pristinely manicured lawn.

* * *

A year ago, if someone had told Natasha that she would be on her way to visit Peggy Carter’s home, she would have laughed in their face. Well, probably not _laughed_ outwardly, but she definitely would have decided that they were either insane or very, very stupid.

She’s been with S.H.I.E.L.D. for scarcely six months, has had an official clearance for just over two. And she has three whole field ops to her name, as of last week. She was expecting to spend the day on more training, proving her skills to be certified in the use of less-than-conventional weapons. Instead, she’s found herself on the first jet out of New York, is currently watching Barton impatiently try to maneuver their rental car through morning rush hour traffic.

“You know,” says Natasha, as he switches lanes for the third time in the past five minutes, “you’re not actually saving any time.”

Clint glances sideways at her. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” she insists, “I do.”

“You spend a lot of time researching morning rush hour traffic statistics?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “No. But that van’s been keeping pace with us for the past twenty minutes.” She gestures to a dented and rusty vehicle with stickers touting the glory of gun ownership all over its back bumper.

Clint sighs. “Still don’t understand why they couldn’t have dropped us off, you know, closer.”

“Sure,” she says dryly, “because landing a quinjet on a residential street would be very inconspicuous. What’s your hurry? Excited to see the legendary Agent Carter?” She says it sarcastically, but Natasha has to admit that Peggy Carter _is_ a legend. There are very few living people considered important enough to be a central part of the Red Room’s curriculum, and Carter is one of them. Plus, it’s all but impossible to see the organization she’s built from the inside and not be at least a little bit impressed.

“Definitely,” says Clint. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “You ever met her before?”

He shakes his head. “No. But I’ve heard rumors.”

She waits, realizes with annoyance that he’s going to make her ask. “Such as?”

“Heard she punched out all of the Pentagon once,”says Clint, leaning on his horn as a red pickup truck cuts them off.

Natasha snorts. “Right. That sounds likely.”

“Once when she and Captain America were out to dinner, they stopped a bank robbery across the street. Without any weapons.”

“Anyone who attempts to rob a bank at dinner time is an idiot,” says Natasha.

“I _also_ heard that back in the day, she could bench press all of the guys in the Howling Commandos. And out-drink them, too.” He aims his very best look of sincerity in Natasha’s direction. 

“Can you just get us there already?” she asks. S.H.I.E.L.D. rumors, it turns out, are boring. She isn’t sure what she ought to have been expecting.

Clint grins. “What I’ve been saying all along.”

* * *

Peggy’s heard plenty about this century’s infamous Black Widow. She’s had to, after signing all of the reports, reading the profile her agents developed, assessing the damage in the wake of all the failed attempts to eliminate her once and for all. Peggy was the one who asked Fury for a list of his best people, too. The one who ultimately chose Barton for the assignment. 

She has to admit, she never expected to see--much less approve--paperwork allowing Romanoff into S.H.I.E.L.D. But it’s not so different from the things she considered for Dottie, all those years ago. Which is also why she’s keeping one of her sidearms concealed beneath the hem of a baggy sweater today, wanted the insurance for this meeting.

Peggy’s seen the progress reports on Romanoff, has read all about her therapy and has even seen some video of her in training. But Peggy’s still taken aback, when she arrives with Barton, by how _young_ this girl is, still practically a child but already feared by more grown men than Peggy can count. It doesn’t matter how many photos or intelligence reports she’s seen. It doesn’t matter how many of the Red Room’s agents she’s even met in person. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be immune to the inherent horror of little girls with scars on their wrists and ghosts in their eyes.

“I’d offer you something to drink,” says Peggy, showing them into her foyer, “but my kitchen is currently an active crime scene.”

“So that’s why we’re meeting here?” asks Romanoff. “Instead of at the Triskelion? All we’ve been told is that there was some sort of attack last night, and you requested to speak with us. Personally.”

Peggy smiles thinly. Right down to business, then. And probably sizing her up, too. “Yes. Walk with me.”

She leads the way into the kitchen, which is cordoned off with tape. There’s already been a team here, though, dusting for prints and collecting anything that might be capable of concealing whatever poison Dottie chose for this job. 

Peggy’s done her share of work this morning too, digging up old files that fortunately made the cut for digitizing and archiving when S.H.I.E.L.D. went paperless in celebration of a new century. She’s made printouts for this meeting, though, hands a neat stack of papers to Romanoff and Barton each. 

“You recognize that woman?” asks Peggy, watching as Romanoff flips through the photos, half a dozen different identities and disguises. But unfortunately not the most recent one. That one hasn’t been captured, because apparently someone’s taught Dottie how to disable the most sophisticated present-day security cameras.

Romanoff shakes her head. “No. Should I?”

Peggy shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s part of what I’m hoping you can tell me. She goes by the name Dorothy Underwood, though we’re pretty sure that never was her true identity.”

“And who is she?” asks Romanoff, still studying the pictures, flipping through them for the third time, slowly.

“She’s one of yours,” says Peggy, then realizes that’s probably not the best way to phrase that particular fact, considering that the woman she’s talking to is now an official S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, albeit a new one. It’s been a long day already, and it isn’t even midmorning. “She was trained in the Red Room. After that, she became a sort of mercenary, we think. Went rogue, worked for the highest bidder.”

Romanoff shakes her head. “Not recently.”

Peggy feels the smile tug at the corners of her lips again. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as watching one of her hunches about another person be vindicated. “No. In fact, we originally believed she was born in the 1920s.”

“Originally?” Romanoff looks up sharply, arches an eyebrow.

“Well,” says Peggy, “I saw her again last night. She’s the reason my kitchen is now a crime scene, in fact. She had a vial of something--presumably poison. And she looked just like that. Different hair, different clothes, like all the other times, but her face was exactly the same. Like she hadn’t aged at all.”

“So--you’re thinking what?” asks Barton. “Android or vampire?”

Romanoff shoots him a withering look, and he grins.

“I’m curious what you think,” says Peggy, watching as the other woman frowns, almost imperceptibly.

“Being one of theirs--meant _not knowing_ more things than we were allowed to know,” she says slowly. “If I could give you all of their secrets, I would. But they were--they _are_ the best at protecting information. There were rumors, though. Stories about agents who made themselves valuable enough to the right people, got put on ice so they wouldn’t could live forever. I don’t know if any of them were true. I never wanted to find out.”

“Not exactly something you aspired to?” asks Peggy, suppressing a shudder at the thought.

Romanofff shakes her head. “Spend your whole life in an abyss between jobs where you get to be someone else’s tool? No thank you. I’d rather die tomorrow.”

Peggy nods. “I’d agree, personally.”

“Was that what you wanted from me?” asks Romanoff. “You wanted to know if I knew your suspect? Or how she could be alive?”

“Yes,” says Peggy, knowing that she could leave it at that, could have a dozen more veteran, proven agents on the case with just one phone call. But she doesn’t want them, she decides, is even more sure of that now. “But I also need someone who can track this woman down and stop her. She tried to kill me last night, and I’m certain she won’t stop trying until she gets what she wants.”

Romanoff flips through the pictures one more time, then looks up, a smile that mirrors Peggy’s slowly curling its way across her lips. “ _That_ is a thing I can do.”


	2. Chapter 2

__  
February 3, 2004  
S.H.I.E.L.D. Triskelion  
Washington, D.C. 

Natasha has heard the Triskelion mentioned plenty of times, even saw some schematics of its computer, electrical, and security systems back when she was still just another girl in another one of the Red Room’s classes. She knew it was impressive, and had been expecting to be brought to it immediately when she’d agreed to sign her life away to her new masters. But instead she’s spent the past year in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York regional headquarters, perhaps because they don’t trust her with their flagship facility, or maybe just because Barton isn’t regularly stationed in D.C. 

Either way, she can’t deny the heavy sense of anticipation that rests on her shoulders as they walk through the glass doors and into the lobby, an equal mix of curiosity and apprehension. The initial reception area is deceptively innocuous, drenched in sunlight from the many windows, groups of plush leather chairs scattered around, though she notices immediately that nobody is sitting in any of them. 

Clint leads the way straight back toward another set of doors, which have scarcely managed to finish sliding open when they’re greeted by a man in a sharply-tailored dark suit, the light reflecting off his glasses and the dome of his shaved head.

“Restricted access only,” he says by way of greeting. 

Clint rolls his eyes and holds up a hand, as if he’s expecting Natasha to try and argue. She’s already learned that staying quiet and letting others work out the bureaucracy here is by far the best strategy.

“We’re here at Peggy Carter’s request, Sitwell. As I’m sure you’ve already been informed.”

The other man shakes his head, gestures vaguely in Natasha’s direction. “She doesn’t have clearance to be here.”

“ _She_ has a name, and is perfectly capable of noticing that you’re talking about her like she isn’t here,” Clint answers sourly. “And _her_ expertise was specifically requested for this assignment. Which I’m sure you’ve also been told.”

“Yes,” says Sitwell, “but Carter doesn’t have jurisdiction here. Not unless she gets the Council to issue a specific official order.”

“Sure,” Clint agrees, his tone too casual, venom barely disguised beneath the surface. “But whose side do you think Fury’s going to take if you try to go that route? Hers or yours?”

Sitwell shakes his head, clearly knew he was going to be overruled but apparently decided to make their day more irritating anyway by making a statement of his disapproval. “Fine. But she’s wearing a bracelet every minute she’s inside this facility.” He holds one up, evidently having come prepared.

“Fine.” Clint sighs, steps back so that Natasha can present her wrist. 

She knows that there’s still a subdermal tracker implanted in her forearm, ironically beneath the scars that circle her wrist. She also knows that the bracelet has additional security measures, can even be used to physically disable her if someone higher up desires it. 

“No direct computer access,” says Sitwell, securing it around her wrist, the metal cold against her skin. “And no entry beyond the rooms on this corridor. I’ve read your files. I know your tricks.”

“And I’m familiar with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s fine jewelry,” Natasha says coolly. She’s accustomed to being regarded with suspicion, even fear. It’s not like she can blame them. 

“Come on,” says Clint, brushing past Sitwell and rather deliberately bumping shoulders as he leads the way back to their assigned space for this job.

* * *

It becomes immediately apparent that Clint is a terrible typist. Natasha has seen him procrastinate on his reports before, knows that he prefers to use the provided dictation software, but never has it been so obvious just exactly why that is. Five minutes of watching him make two-fingered stabs at the keyboard and she’s already got half her mind running through possible ways to expedite her own security clearance so to as avoid being in this position ever again.

“There,” she says sharply, as some details catch her eye in the archive file he’s been scrolling through rapidly. “Stop. Go back up a couple of pages.”

She waits for Clint to find the spot again, then leans in to read it over his shoulder. He doesn’t move, his attention still on the screen. That’s a thing she doesn’t understand -- how he doesn’t mind her being in his space, easily within striking distance, doesn’t seem afraid of her at all, ever. 

The document on the screen is fuzzy, a report that was no doubt written on a typewriter, then scanned for archiving decades later. She can see the yellowing of the paper in the image, the way the ink soaked in and spread when it was fresh. There’s something humbling about reading details of a thing that happened so many years ago, realizing that she is about to become part of it. For all that the Red Room drilled detachment and ruthlessness into her, it’s taught her a profound respect for history as well.

“Underwood was last seen in 1949,” says Natasha, jotting some notes onto a piece of paper she’s snagged from one of the printers, because at least there’s nothing preventing her from doing _that_. “She was arrested once, but then somehow later released. No details on that.”

“Killed several SSR agents,” Clint points out, looking back at his copy of the printed information Carter gave them both. “And they just let her walk? No way.”

Natasha frowns. “What are you implying?”

He shrugs. “Same thing as you, I think. Something funky happened, but we don’t know what it was.”

“We’ll have to figure that out,” Natasha says absently, still reading the information on the computer monitor. She might think to critique his choice of words, were she not so intent on the case. “She was last seen fleeing the police in a car that not only crashed, but also exploded. No identifiable body. And since they didn’t have the luxury of a national database of dental records available via the internet, they were never able to conclusively prove that she died in that collision.”

“And the lack of aging?” Clint asks, straightening his pile of papers and turning back to the computer to scroll down further, as if the report might somehow contain the truth about the Fountain of Youth.

“Like I said,” says Natasha, “I’ve heard rumors of humans in cryofreeze. Actual working cryofreeze. But that’s all they ever were, as far as I knew--Rumors.”

“So you really told Carter everything you knew about it?” asks Clint, his tone a little too casual. Obviously he knows how shaky the ground he’s currently treading on can be.

Natasha raises an eyebrow, trying not to lose her temper. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Clint shrugs again. “Nobody here trusts you. Nobody wants to give you any responsibilities. Why would you give them more than the bare minimum in return?”

Natasha is silent for a moment, actually hasn’t considered that, short of her occasional daydreams about leaving, just taking a car and driving until she runs out of land to cover. But she forces herself to turn and meet his eyes instead. “This is the job I was given. _This._ I’m going to do it. Was that not what you were expecting when you brought me in?”

Clint blinks, apparently surprised by the fervor of her answer. “Keep doing it. Keep proving them wrong.”

“Okay,” says Natasha, beginning to get impatient with the delay this conversation is causing. “I think we’ve gotten what we can from the records.”

“So what next?” Clint closes out of the document, revealing the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo as the desktop background. 

“Let’s get on the comm channels,” she decides. “Scan all frequencies. There are certain transmissions and codes used by the Red Room. If she’s working for them, and she went back underground, that’s how she’ll be communicating her updates to her superiors.”

Clint nods, then pauses, still staring at the desktop, like he isn’t sure he’s seen it before. “Okay. Tell me where to click?”

* * *

It isn’t as though they’re working under the most ideal circumstances -- far from it, in fact. Telling Clint what to type, how to access some of the secured frequencies that aren’t in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s typical repertoire feels like trying to wade through quicksand. It’s slow, for one thing, but it’s more than that -- there’s something about having to say and spell things aloud that seems to interfere with the smooth automaticity of her training, feels like stumbling up the steepest learning curve all over again. More than once, she finds the words coming to her mind in Russian instead of English, though it’s been years since she was allowed to speak her native language freely, in any circumstances aside from an assignment which demanded it.

Regardless, they’ve been making slow but steady progress throughout the day, as the afternoon’s slipped away into evening, and then faded on toward midnight. The trouble is, although they’ve managed to rule _out_ a good number of possible safe houses and other hiding spots Natasha has knowledge of, they’ve found absolutely no evidence of Dottie’s actual whereabouts so far. And the multiple visits from agents who seem to be assigned simply to monitor their workspace have the muscles in her neck and shoulders knitting together toward a very unpleasant headache.

“I have a question,” says Clint, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands behind his head, a facade of nonchalance that Natasha doesn’t buy for one instant. She might not exactly know him _well_ just yet, but she’s already learned to read his body language as well as she ever could with any of her handlers.

She meets his eyes, bristling in anticipation of whatever it is he’s about to ask. “Yes?”

“Let’s say that Dottie Underwood is working for the Red Room,” says Clint, apparently unfazed by her reaction. 

“Seems the logical assumption,” Natasha agrees, still unsure where he’s going with this, since they’ve been working on that basis for the entire day.

“Right,” says Clint. “So she’s Red Room. Which means that her handlers aren’t stupid. In fact, it means that her handlers are probably pretty scary _good_ at what they do.”

“I’m familiar,” Natasha interrupts. “What’s your point?”

“Presumably they have more than a rudimentary knowledge of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” says Clint. “And presumably they also have at least a hunch that you now work for us.”

“What are you insinuating?” she breaks in again, the combination of tension and frustration making her skin crawl. 

“That if Dottie’s people know we’ve got someone with inside knowledge, they might instruct her not to follow the usual protocol,” says Clint. “And that might be why your usual leads aren’t turning anything up.”

She pauses at that, surprised again. She’s become so accustomed to people’s doubt and suspicion that she’s started jumping to conclusions, she realizes.

“It might,” she admits finally. Natasha leans back against the chair heavily, runs a hand through her hair. “But if that’s the case, then I have absolutely no idea where to go from here.” She forces herself to swallow down the sense of dread that’s started to rise in her gut, the voices in the back of her mind that insist her life’s only worth as much as the results she’s able to produce in the moment. 

“How about the hotel?” asks Clint, and it actually takes Natasha a moment to realize that he means the one S.H.I.E.L.D.’s reserved for them. 

“You want to just--take a break?” she presses.

Clint sighs. “It’s almost midnight. And sometimes you need fresh eyes.”

* * *

_February 4, 2004  
Bethesda, Maryland_

Peggy sits straight up in bed, jolted awake for the second early morning in a row. Her heart is pounding from a dream she doesn’t remember, and it takes her a moment to realize that she’s been disturbed by the phone ringing. The clock on the bedside table reads 3:03 am when she glances over at it.

This time, she takes the extra half second to grab the loaded gun that she placed on the bedside table at bedtime. Her home has been outfitted with even more sophisticated security systems than usual, every piece of technology S.H.I.E.L.D. has at its disposal now deployed just in case Dottie makes another attempt here. She’s too smart for that, though, Peggy is fairly certain. 

Still holding the gun in one hand, she picks up the phone with the other. “Yes?”

“You sound tired,” comes Dottie’s voice on the other end of the line, all faux concern. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“It’s three in the morning,” says Peggy, quickly pulling the phone away from her ear just long enough to thumb the special button that will send a message to S.H.I.E.L.D., let them know that they should be recording and tracing this call. The technology has been standard for the past several years, though this is the first time she’s used it. “Of course you woke me.”

“How tragically boring,” says Dottie. 

Peggy ducks, then kneels on the carpet, trying to stay out of view from the windows. She has no idea who might be watching her, who might have her in their crosshairs at this very moment. If Dottie somehow has eyes on her, she’s probably enjoying the comedy act. 

“I’m practically a Shakespeare play,” Peggy answers dryly, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “Where did you go? We’ve got so much to catch up on, and we were only just getting started last night.”

“Peggy,” Dottie chides, drawing out the syllables of her name coyly. “Are you trying to proposition me? I’m sorry, but it seems you’ve missed your chance. Older women just aren’t for me.”

“What is for you, then?” asks Peggy, mostly to keep her on the phone, guarantee that there’s time for the trace to be completed. “It’s a whole new world since I saw you last.”

Dottie laughs, as if Peggy’s just said something particularly charming. “Come and see. I know that’s what you’re going to do anyway.”

The phone goes dead with a sharp click. Peggy holds it to her ear for another long moment, waiting for something more to happen, for a fresh trap to be sprung. When nothing does, she lowers it with shaking fingers and dials the number for S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Did you get it?” she asks the groggy-voiced agent who answers, and doesn’t exhale until she has the affirmative.


	3. Chapter 3

_February 4, 2004  
Washington, D.C._

Privacy is not a thing Natasha has ever considered one of her rights. She understands it in principle, knows why it’s important to others--as well as plenty of strategies for taking it away--but it has never been an option for her, is yet another concept she’s been raised to fear even wanting for herself. 

The fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. requires her to share a hotel room with Barton whenever she’s in the field makes sense, the rational part of her has to admit. He’s her SO, after all, and they’re absolutely justified in refusing the liability that would be allowing her to spend an entire night unmonitored. Still, this time something about it is nagging at her, like the proverbial grain of sand. Maybe it’s the suspicion and doubt that were cast in her direction the previous day, or maybe it’s just the fact that this assignment is bringing up the dregs of her past, the things she’s tried not to think about since finishing the compulsory therapy.

“Breakfast,” says Barton, unceremoniously tossing a pizza box onto one of the beds, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable thing for one to be eating before the sky is fully light outside. He’s got a cup of coffee, too, and that combination strikes Natasha as a bit sickening.

She eyes the pizza for a moment, then picks it up carefully and moves it to the surface of the tiny desk the hotel’s provided. The idea of leaving food stains behind on the linens is triggering a number of alarm bells in the back of her mind, not just because it would be rude to the hotel staff. Allowing others to know about a supply of food still strikes her as carelessly reckless. 

Barton eyes her for a moment. “Okay. Breakfast over there?”

“Pizza is messy,” Natasha says simply, grabbing a couple of tissues to use as napkins before taking a slice for herself. Pizza is also far richer than anything she was allowed to eat during her training, but she thinks she’s doing rather well adjusting to the whole American Food thing, as well as Barton’s total disregard for typical mealtimes. 

Clint shrugs. “I’m messy.” He snags three slices, stacks them in one palm, then moves over to eat them on his bed.

“You’re a terrible influence,” Natasha says pleasantly, then takes her seat at the desk to eat her food. 

They make it through one slice each in silence, are just beginning to approach the point where she’s expecting Clint to start making off-color jokes about using S.H.I.E.L.D. petty cash for pay-per-view adult content as a pick-me-up before work. Fortunately she’s spared that particular part of the conversation by someone knocking on the door.

She sits up straighter immediately, wishes that she had some sort of weapon, but of course she doesn’t have clearance for that yet except in the field when it’s a necessity. “You expecting anyone?”

Clint shakes his head, glances at his bow in the corner of the room before setting down the rest of his pizza and getting to his feet. It’s probably paranoia on both their parts, but Natasha can’t let herself forget that they are looking for an assassin with a history of attacking people in their homes. She watches as Clint crosses the room, looks through the peephole before opening the door.

“You’re about the last person I expected to see here,” says Clint, and a moment later, Natasha watches as Peggy Carter steps into their hotel room.

“Sorry for the surprise,” says Peggy, “but we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough.”

Natasha closes the pizza box and wipes her hands clean on one of the tissues she grabbed earlier. “What kind?”

“Dottie called me,” says Peggy. “We traced it to an apartment in Baltimore.”

“So now we get to go after her?” asks Clint, returning to his pizza and taking a large bite.

“Yes,” Peggy agrees. “As soon as possible.”

“Why not just call and tell us that?” asks Natasha, already running through the scenario in her mind. 

“Because,” says Peggy, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m going with you.”

Clint looks immediately taken aback, scrambles for a way to voice his thoughts tactfully. “Are you--Sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yes,” Peggy says again. “Because we are most certainly walking into a trap. And nobody knows Dottie’s tricks like I do.”

* * *

The apartment is in a building that has most definitely seen better days. The small strip of struggling grass in front of it is nearly obscured by rotting piles of garbage and dirty snow. Three windows are broken on the units that face the street, covered with faded garbage bags that are moving gently in the wind, giving the illusion that the building is breathing. The roof appears to be on its last legs too, sagging downward, completely open to the sky in several places where it’s actually caved in. 

It’s the kind of building that makes Peggy angry, makes her wish she had the time to take a serious stand against poverty. It’s the kind of building that ought to be nothing more than a closed chapter in this country’s history, behind it with the Depression. And yet.

“GPS says our location is on that side of the building,” says Romanoff, studying the readout on her phone and cocking her head toward the two end units on their right. “Could be either floor, though.”

“Could be both floors,” Barton adds unhelpfully. 

“Then we’d better go find out as soon as possible,” says Peggy. She takes the lead up to the door, though she’s aware on some level that her presence here at all is probably ill-advised. Of the three of them, she’s physically the least able to fend off a possible attack. And a lot of people depend on her to continue doing her job. Still, this is exactly the sort of thing she’s been missing, and this is her mess to clean up besides. 

The door to the interior hallway is unlocked, and the space inside smells overwhelmingly of mold and stale urine. 

“Home sweet home,” says Barton, then elaborates when Romanoff shoots him a reproachful look. “Seriously, when I was a kid, there were times a place like this would have seemed like a good deal.”

Peggy ignores them, marching straight up to the door of the downstairs unit and rapping her knuckles against it. For a few long moments, there’s nothing but silence, and she begins to question whether she ought to knock again, how much time they should give it before concluding that this is the correct location and breaking their way in.

It doesn’t come to that, though. The sound of steps comes first, then the scraping of a chain being removed before the door opens a crack. Behind it is a girl who looks scarcely old enough to be living on her own. She’s cradling a very young baby in her arms and her expression is nothing short of terrified.

“Hi,” says Peggy, suddenly acutely aware of how bizarre they must look as a group. “We’re--with the police. Has there been any suspicious activity in this building lately?”

The girl gives her a wary look. “What is this, some kind of drug sting? You gonna go get some dogs if I don’t say what you want to hear?”

Peggy sighs, thinks she should have expected this suspicion. She reaches into a pocket, pulls out the folded photo print out she’s been carrying and shows it to the girl. “We’re looking for this woman. Have you seen her around here?”

The girl shakes her head immediately, but it takes Peggy a moment to decide she believes that the answer is genuine.

“She’s very dangerous,” says Peggy. “If you see her, don’t approach her.”

The girl nods, closes and locks the door in a rush.

“Upstairs, then?” asks Barton. Romanoff nods, still looking at the GPS. 

On the second level, Peggy knocks again, and this time there isn’t any sign of life inside. She knocks a second time to be sure, then a third for good measure. Either nobody’s at home here or someone doesn’t want to attract any attention, wants them to come inside for themselves. Warily, she reaches for the doorknob, on nothing more than a hunch.

“Don’t,” Romanoff says sharply, knocking Peggy’s hand away so quickly that the surprise of it nearly sways her off balance. 

She turns immediately and gives Romanoff an incredulous look. “I know that it’s probably a trap. I wasn’t planning on going in off my guard.”

“You’re expecting a trap inside the apartment,” says Romanoff, still standing between Peggy and the door. “But you’re not thinking about any danger out here. You might want to step back.”

She doesn’t give Peggy a chance to respond to that in any way, just leans back, then kicks the door once, solidly. It swings open immediately, and Peggy finds herself taken aback by this show of force, surprising given Romanoff’s size if not her reputation. 

Peggy ducks instinctively, expecting a gunshot or something worse coming through the doorway. Nothing of the sort happens, though, and she feels a bit foolish for her reaction. 

“So, why was that necessary?” she asks, straightening.

Romanoff steps into the apartment, motioning for Peggy and Barton to follow.

“Because of this,” she responds, closing the door halfway to reveal a tiny black device on the back of it, barely noticeable but clearly out of place. “The doorknob is metal. This is meant to give anyone who touches it a very nasty shock.”

“That’s new,” says Peggy, surprised in spite of herself.

Romanoff gives her a tight little smile. “Not really. This tech is probably older than I am. But that’s why you brought me along, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got me there,” Peggy admits, letting her take the lead instead.

Inside, the tiny studio apartment looks nearly as sad as the building’s facade. It’s clearly been inhabited recently but there are no signs of life now. Peggy decides she doesn’t want to contemplate where its occupant has gone. 

There’s a bed pushed into the far corner of the room, dirty threadbare sheets handing in a bunch over one side, as if they’ve been frozen in the process of falling. Some articles of dirty laundry are strewn across the floor along with a layer of general clutter, as if it’s being used as the biggest shelf in the place. The distinct odor of rotting food is coming from another corner of the apartment, which Peggy now sees is a small kitchenette. 

“Don’t touch,” Romanoff’s voice breaks in again, and suddenly Peggy turns to see her grabbing hold of Barton, who’s been about to reach for what appears to be a wallet on the folding chair that’s serving as a bedside table. 

“Okay,” Barton says slowly. Apparently he knows better than to disregard his partner’s warning. That’s new, and Peggy will have to remember it. “Why?”

Romanoff moves very carefully across the room, kneels in front of the chair and gingerly plucks something from the underside of the seat. It’s a glass bulb, Peggy sees, like the sort one might expect to find filled with tinsel and hung on a Christmas tree. Only this one, she’s certain, is much less innocuous. 

“What is that?” she asks, as she watches Romanoff get gracefully back to her feet, still holding the bulb.

“This,” says Romanoff, “is a very potent neurotoxin. Or I assume it is, anyway. I don’t actually know what’s inside of this particular one. But Red Room developed this nice little trap too. It has a pressure trigger that’s placed under an object a mark would be likely to move. In this case, the wallet. Underwood must have known we’d pick it up to look for clues, or at least the identity of the victim she took this place from. Pick up the weight and _boom_ , instant detonation so fast you’ll be dead from the poison before you know what happened.”

“But you just touched it,” says Peggy, trying not to become too distracted by the implications of this technology. She can’t be focused on the big picture right now, just the details of their current environment. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Oh, no,” says Romanoff, almost gleeful. “I separated the payload from the trigger. It’s perfectly safe. As long as none of us drops it.”

“Well,” Barton breaks in, “then this might not be the best time to point out the bed.”

Peggy frowns, forcing herself to tear her attention from the tiny ball of lethal poison and find the spot where Barton’s focused. The bed, she sees now, has a bit more than the discarded sheets she noticed earlier. There’s a folded piece of paper on top of it, more deliberately placed than anything else in this room.

She crosses to it, surveys the display for a moment. _Peggy_ says the paper in elaborately looped handwriting. There’s a crimson lipstick mark next to it where apparently Dottie has kissed the paper. 

Then she sees what’s under the note, and a wave of cold horror washes over her. It’s a dark red pair of her panties, one she hasn’t worn in years. Still, she knows it was buried at the bottom of a dresser drawer a few days ago. Which means Dottie hasn’t just caught her off-guard in her home for the past two nights, she’s managed to steal something from the bedroom while Peggy was asleep in it as well. And, without this tip off, she never would have known at all.


End file.
